


Never enough

by tothemovies (jarofactonbell)



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Gen, M/M, don't think that yuuri die because i make it seem that way, never enough is the other theme song of yoi, vague???? everything???, welcome to my world i don't know what's happening either
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-10
Updated: 2019-02-10
Packaged: 2019-10-25 13:04:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17725712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jarofactonbell/pseuds/tothemovies
Summary: The vision asks:Take my handWill you share this with me?“Share what?”“This.”





	Never enough

**Author's Note:**

> part one of the 'wow i didn't get in zines with these fics so now i'm throwing them all over the internet' saga from your local gremlin

_I'm trying to hold my breath_

There is breathing space, in the first instance light floods through the tentative lift of his eyelids, heavy with the avoidance of sight. He didn’t want to see, didn’t want to be assaulted with the cruel and almost clinical light reflecting off the ice. 

A hand reaches out for his. Fingers graze his knuckles through the gloves - warmth that comes - so close, if not for the fabric separating skin on skin.

He lets go of the comfortable darkness beyond his lids, seeks for the light to give sight to the hand that reached out for him, a fallen wretch with his wings ripped away from him. He is not worthy, not of any splendour or normality - he is empty from the brim of his eyelids to the stretch of his toes, and he is not deserving of the feather-kiss touch that another had given him, much too freely.

_ Can’t you see that I’m empty deep down inside?  _ He wants to scream out.  _ A shell, parading as something with soul and a beating heart. Put that hand on my pulse again and tell me - do you hear a heartbeat? _

“Hey,” he hears, beyond the sliver of light he can’t fight off, “breathe.”

He breathes out. And in. Holds the air inside his lungs.

_ I'm trying to hold my breath _

Eyes open, eyes wide - capturing the sight of another before him. 

_ Let it stay this way _

_ Can't let this moment end _

His wings are clipped and they have burnt to a charred shadow and scarred the bones on his back, the skin on his flesh. He fell, from a precipice looming over his lost vision, dashed apart and scattered elsewhere, falling falling falling -

“Hey,” the boy, the angel without wings calls once more, “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. Not ever, not again.”

_ You set off a dream in me _

_ Gettin' louder now _

_ Can you hear it echoing? _

The dream he held when he fell, head first, pitching his head of silvery stars onto the pitch black earth - it sounded so far away. What was it? What was his dream?

Did he have a dream?

Was it enough for a creature from up high to fall head and heart first into a ravine unknown to all eyes and even its own?

Oh there are faint echoes. Murmurs of something grand and brilliant in the back of his mind - but they plague him when he falls and when a jump doesn’t land right - he is a swan without wings and he swerves in directions unseen to chase after a sight he is not even sure exists.

Is this image before him real, a concrete sight, a living soul with a beating heart, or has he deluded himself so far that he cannot distinguish the lines between dreams and the screams inside his head?

The vision asks:

_ Take my hand _

_ Will you share this with me? _

“Share what?”

“This.”

He is drawn into a dance. Atop ice. Metal on frozen water. Gliding blades on the snowflakes condensing underfoot. A rhythm set by two.

The vision croons. “Give me your hand, sweetheart. Darling, without you - ”

He was raised on a podium with high stakes pitted against him at the wish to see his downfall. He persevered, through sheer spite and effort, at his heyday -

And it had felt immeasurably ecstatic, more colourful than words could begin to sketch. It was more than enough, the thrill of dancing on the tip of the cliff face, always one wrong step away from crashing low and lower and lowest -

But he had fallen and burnt in a flash of flame on his descent and his palms are callused now or from then, and he cannot hold anything within his palms for the reminder that he would not be able to feel, the skin charred and burnt and no longer human. 

Nothing is enough anymore. He had chased at everything only to grasp nothing. 

_ All the shine of a thousand spotlights _

_ All the stars we steal from the night sky _

_ Will never be enough _

_ Never be enough _

Oh he touched the splendour of gold and tasted victory on the same lips that kissed snow, but it all fell to futility. 

The figure dances and twirls around him, a ghostly touch here, a caress of a gloved finger to cheek there.

There is an invitation, askance for a step into the deep ravine of the other's eyes. He remembers and he does not - has he seen this face before, have they met and touched? Why are there haunting memories of a ghost who had never crossed paths with him?

Studies said that the brain never forget a face the eyes gazed upon, and incurs ghosts in the recesses of dreams to remind the consciousness that these ghosts should never be forgotten.

He had met this ghost, one that is so tantalisingly close by, almost sweet enough to reach out and touch, but so far apart is the space between his own fingertips and the hand that asks for his in return. 

The ghost speaks, though not in the spoken words.  _ He _ speaks in multitudes that sit jagged between the pauses of the words being spoken and the darting of oxen brown eyes. Bewitching little vixen, and he cannot have enough, cannot drink in the mere sight of this creature before him and be satisfied. 

His body remembers a touch that was wholly and unabashed joy, unbridled and loosened with the aid of alcohol. Two little ones dancing across a floor, clear of any onlookers, their feet under and over the surface, simply laughing and missing the rhythm entirely.

He had grasped the touch of those hands and realises with a jolt that, as true as shadows falling into crevices without light, that he had held the world in his hands and it was a transient sense of forever, constantly reminded at every skating event. One after another, the banality of it all dulled him to simply skin and bones of an artist, someone who ought to possess soul in his arts. Laughable, and pitiable, that he no longer does. Or has ever done.

_ Towers of gold are still too little _

_ These hands could hold the world but it'll _

_ Never be enough _

“Take my hand,” his little ghost insists. Again. Again. Again. All over again.

Oh but dreams will never amount to reality, but in dreams it is the sweetest agony to anticipate for reality. He longs for that hand, the hand he knows, is certain, that lies many leagues of ocean away. He had held forever in a solitary moment of ephemerality and he thirsts for more. Almost desperate for it to sprout wings and search coastlines for that head of raven hair and forever eyes.

_ All the shine of a thousand spotlights _

_ All the stars we steal from the night sky _

_ Will never be enough _

_ Never be enough _

For now, he cannot content with the illusion before him. He cannot idle and wallow in the misery of his state. Lights will leave and spark, and lives too. He had tasted ambrosia and the fruits of bitterness with the same mouth - his own tongue bleaching black with the crushed disappointment of the last several months, enough for him to yearn for the sweet food of the gods again.

Oh but what he has is not enough. He desires more and more - so many splendours, and they simply cannot substantiate any degree of satisfaction in his lungs -

_ Towers of gold are still too little _

_ These hands could hold the world but it'll _

_ Never be enough _

_ Never be enough _

His name, Viktor, suggests just as much about him - a victor, a winner from failure. He will brave the treacherous climb from defeat back to the dancing cliff face he occupied in his heyday, and perhaps, in more arrogant and passing moments, his destination of permanence. 

He gives in to the ghost, and drowns in the impermanence of dreams. 

**Author's Note:**

> maybe this is the reason why they didn't pick me
> 
> find me across all these things: [twitter](https://twitter.com/tacobell_com), [curious cat](https://curiouscat.me/jenny_benny) and [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/tacomakers-central)


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